Mother Magyck
by Doll's.Stare
Summary: A thousand different events, a thousand different paths. One observer. Magyck is any and everywhere, but it is still created. In human form, how will she cope? What will she change? Non-romantic OC.


**My first Harry Potter fanfic-strange (possibly incoherent) idea, but one I had to toss out before it made my brain explode. Leaves space for the essay I should be finishing. :D Slow updates, I might not even update for a few months this year, RL and school is going to eat me alive in a few days. Like my other stories, I will come back to this later. Future chapters will probably be longer.**

**Alerts: NON-ROMANTIC OC; well, it's sort of an OC. I don't actually know how to classify this person. Possible bad grammar-finished and badly edited at two in the morning.**

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling's, not mine. If you're here and don't know this, shame on you.**

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**Mother Magyck**

_Chapter One: In Different Forms_

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She is the warm spark inside a little colt's chest, melding its human torso with its horse legs together as the little one grows inside its mother's womb. She is the biting chill running through the birthing cold one's veins as his eyeteeth lengthen and his heartbeat slows. She is the lonely call of the moon, enticing savagery of those beneath its control, and she is the tranquil hum of the horned horses, in whose blood lay a curse of insidious sorrow and insanity.

She is the flickering flames of the firebird, who repeats the cycle of life and death over and over, and she is the scorching fire belched by the scaled masters of the sky. She is the lifeblood of a plant who wails when pulled out of the ground, and the poison of metal contraptions powered by condensed, controlled lightning bolts.

She is life and death.

She is the strings tying together familiar and sorcerer, twin sorcerers and bond mates together; she is the family magicks passed down from generation to generation, always evolving. She is the power channelled through staffs and focuses and wands, and she is leftover energy discharged by a myriad of spells drifting in the air. She is a witness—to rainbow battles merged with battles of swords and spears; to civil wars within horseman, wizard, cold man and others clans alike, and to wars against clans; to the rise and fall of several civilisations and the dying of their practices; to new practices being created and used and popularised.

She is the past, and the present. The bonds each person holds at present, the knowledge passed down, the observer of events both recorded and unrecorded.

And for each being several paths are open for them to tread, each path littered with bends and turns and maybe even intersections. For each event, several different conclusions, and even then, several different paths to the same conclusion. She will go down one path, and at the same time she will go down another—an endless amount of ever-growing possibilities, of which she has an eye in all.

She is the future. She is possibilities. She is alternates and what-ifs and could-have-beens.

And all the time as she traverses one path she watches others, looking for—_changes_. For the consequence of one action, and the consequence of another action, both reactions to the same event. She looks for time variations, practice variations, people variations. Always watching, always observing.

In essence, she is God.

Her Creator wove her into his other creations, his creations of earth and sky and water and space, created her to be everywhere, an observer for all areas. Then left his creations, content with letting them thrive on their own. But it was boredom that encouraged her Creator to make things, for why else would her Creator make something only to leave it? It is her Creator's form of playing to alleviate the boredom of being so high above everything else, to be the Ultimate Being. In that sure position, her role as almost-God on a toy is laughable. This known clearly between them, her Creator is content to leave her be with the rest of the creations.

Until boredom sets in again.

It is not so surprising when she feels the hand that created her touch her again, centuries, millennia, eons after her creation. Not so surprising when her Creator explores her everlasting memory, watches curiously the beings she sustains and breathes life into, the bonds she helps reinforce and maintain, the records of past events and the unfolding of future paths. Not surprising when her Creator fiddles with her with some amusement, picking one path and tearing a sliver of herself—

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—And she wakes to air in lungs she has never owned before, unfamiliar black long hair pooled around her, a strange sensitivity to rough surfaces originating from a back of bare skin she has never had, and a piercing shriek ringing in ears that had not existed on her before that should _not_ have disturbed her given her close up observations of war zones before.

Her eyelids—also new to her—flicker automatically, and she is attacked by pink and orange and green and too many other colours to actually distinguish. Her eyes dart around frantically as she sits up, trying to make sense of the world around her, and eventually she realises she is sitting on grass, in some human's front garden, and the sky is pink because it is dawn. That cannot be right though, because she should be everywhere, in one place and another at the same time, and yet she can only _see_ one place.

For that matter, she can only hear one event, and it is the event of the human woman screaming right in front of her. It is making her head—and why on earth did she have a head?—hurt, strangely enough.

So she waves a hand—and stares at the appendage she had just waved, bemused at this other part of her that she yet again doesn't recall ever having. It is shaped like a human hand, with four long fingers and a stubbier finger humans called a thumb, and the centre is marked by faint creases.

"Who are you?" the woman finally stops shrieking to ask, and she is so thankful for this she decides not to react to the woman's demanding tone.

Then she processes her questions and stares blankly at the woman, for what could she tell her? She has gone by many names, but her Creator had never given her a specific name. It never mattered when all she did was observe, but now that she is somehow interacting as well, it suddenly matters a lot. She can only shrug—the movement awkward due to her unfamiliarity with this body she seems to be inhabiting—and resume her staring contest with the woman.

The woman—vaguely horse-like in the face shape and neck –makes a disgusted sound and glances about, as if she is afraid someone will appear on the street. The woman gestures at her impatiently.

"Well, get up and get inside, otherwise the neighbours might see you _naked_," she orders, and mutters something about abnormal and freakish under her breath.

She tries to stand, but her unfamiliarity with her legs causes her to stumble, and had the human woman not stepped forward to help she would be on the ground nursing a bruised nose. Her cheeks feel warm suddenly, and she has seen the reaction on others enough to know she is probably blushing. It mortifies her, this weakness, this overload of sensation and emotion, this alien weakness, and again she wonders how she can be mortified when she never has been before. She glances at the human woman, wondering if this mortal has infected her with human emotions somehow, and catches sight of the woman's displeased frown.

"Come on," the woman mutters, and drags her into what is presumably her house.

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**Constructive criticism would be appreciated.**


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